


pattern

by scribblingnellie



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Feels, Gen, Guilt, Molly?, Post-Divorce, Post-Reichenbach, Routine, blocking out his thoughts, day to day, keeping his feelings at bay, keeping sane, trying to get on with life, workaholic Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-02-13 20:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2163360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblingnellie/pseuds/scribblingnellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Greg Lestrade, his days have settled into a particular routine. A routine that keeps him sane, keeps him going and keeps thoughts about the dark times of the Fall at bay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pattern

Alarm. 6am. He always found himself awake five minutes before that. If he stayed in bed longer then the thoughts would start. The thoughts he didn't want to have.

Shower. He knew he ought to get the thermostat looked at, but a shower that could suddenly turn cold without notice helped to focus his mind. No letting the warm water drum against his shoulders, no time to contemplate things.

Coffee. First cup of the day was usually the strongest. He used to sit at the table, catching up with overnight news on his laptop while he drank it. But he now found it better for his sanity to stand by the door out into the garden. Stand and look at all the jobs he should've done that autumn before the frosts had set in.

Cigarette. His doctor had said he'd been doing well with the patches. But right then he needed the real thing more. Lighting up, hearing the flick of the lighter and the catch of the tobacco, the first inhale, the long exhale - actions which his mind could concentrate on. Feeling it in his lungs, making its way in and out, he blew smoke out into the cold morning air.

Drive. It had taken him only a week to figure out the best way to get into work from his new house. He was living back where he'd first been posted as a DC. The streets hadn't changed but the buildings had been spruced up; the area was going upmarket. The old furniture factory was now posh flats. Even the chippy had a new sign.

Meeting. His team knew the routine; morning briefing around Donovan's desk. He knew there were still those who doubted him, those who whispered - how was he cleared so quickly? Six months after the jump and he's back in his job? Chief Super's gone and he's still here? Greg knew everything they said. But he was their boss and he was in charge.

Work. The criminals of London didn't keep to a routine, nothing so predictable. Murders, robberies, kidnappings. He knew that the day would involve one, some or all of those in different measures. And he knew his job. Assess the scene, talk to the PCs, note the evidence, speak to victims that could, question witnesses, run ideas past his sergeant. A procedure that gave him a purpose.

Lunch. Timing was not predictable but the food (from a coffee shop round the corner) was worth the security checks out and back in again. He'd take half an hour in his office, ignoring the phone. Early on his colleagues had learned not to disturb him for that half hour. Lunch became a chance to review his notes, piece evidence and clues together and get a fresh perspective.

Cigarette. The only one he planned for at work. Others were snatched whenever - outside on a case or waiting for Donovan or five minutes to himself before heading into the morgue. Nicotine in his system to get him through those moments spent at Barts in her company. Morgue visits weren't always a daily thing, but he gave himself those five minutes - cigarette, courage, calm.

Work. Whatever the criminals of London decided to do with themselves, they could be relied upon to keep him occupied. And there would always be the paperwork.

Paperwork. Most evenings he stayed to finish it, no longer needing to explain why he was late home or where he'd been. He arranged the files on his left, the blank forms on his right. He didn't have to hunt about to find a report or form or photograph or evidence sheet, it was all there in front of him. He found he could complete the multitude of forms faster if he laid each one out as needed.

Pub. Just half a pint as he was driving. If Donovan couldn't make it then Dimmock could, though he preferred Sally's company as she had no tolerance of him being self-pitying. What she'd done was in the past; it wouldn't change anything for him to hold a grudge. He found out quite quickly that holding grudges only brought his mind back round to the thoughts he wanted to keep away.

Drive. A chance to unwind. Tying together the cases and the events and the people of his day, he filed them away in his mind. By the time he'd parked up in front of his house, he'd left the Yard behind.

Dinner. Takeaway, ready meals, beans on toast. Work nights usually meant something quick and easy. Save the proper cooking for when he was off, for when he had time to fill.

Evening. Sometimes he found himself with an hour spare. TV or a DVD were preferable, making him watch and listen. Not music. Singing and dancing around the house like he used to do were too raw for him right then.

Cigarette. Standing outside, no coat. The night air made him shiver, the nicotine in his lungs and his head focused him.

Whisky. He didn't drink to sleep. Experience had taught him not to bother, too many brought the thoughts back. So, just one whisky as he sat on the sofa. The thick smell, catching the light, tasting sweet on his tongue and warming as it hit his throat. Just the one.

Bed. He'd bought a double bed. He wanted one because he liked the space. He left the bedside light on because he could. If tiredness wouldn't come, he'd read. Some nights he just put his head back and closed his eyes.

Sleep. In that moment when it curled its way around him, when his mind let go of consciousness, he saw them. Sherlock, his coat swirling, words racing, his eyes bright. John right by his side, laughing, admonishing, watching. Molly, concentrating, her beautiful smile and gentle touch. That was how he wanted to think of them. In his sleep they weren't dead or broken or withdrawn.

And in the morning Greg would start all over again, focusing on getting through the day. Trying not to blame himself for Sherlock's desperate jump from a rooftop or for his ex-wife's affairs. Hoping to gather up the courage and hold Molly's eyes long enough to work out how she felt about him. Holding onto the thought that one day he would be able to move on and live properly. One day.

*****

**Author's Note:**

> A Greg-centric story about how he's coping in the months after the Fall, the routine he finds himself in to keep going and stay sane. It's written in a list style format, a new experiment for me. Originally published on my fanfiction page as part of my creative prompts for May series. Many thanks for reading!


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